Deathly Hallows – Almost half way

I woke up yesterday morning just after 6:30 to a brilliant blue sky and two sleeping preschoolers, and when I went downstairs I could barely even finish making up a pot of coffee before I cracked open the copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows that Beloved had picked up at 12:01 the night before. (I don’t think the Saturday paper has ever sat, unread and even un-leafed-though, for an entire day while I was home before. Usually, I read it cover-to-cover through the weekend.)

I’m almost half way though the book. I’m reading it more slowly than usual, trying hard to remember details I would ordinarily skim past. I’m finding the part where I am a little slow going, but the curiousity hook is deeply embedded, and I think I’ll be done by the end of today if not early tomorrow.

I’m in self-imposed media lockdown lest I stumble across a spoiler somewhere before I’m done. Beloved already risked death by telling me the chapter title of the last chapter, and I told him he was officially not allowed to speak of the book in any way or form until I’m done. We’ve got a book-sharing arrangement where the book is mine to read by daylight and he’s allowed to read it by lamplight. As long as my bookmark stays ahead of his, we’ll be fine.

Coffee’s finished brewing, time to get back to the book….

The triumph of hope over experience; or, The 12 Week Update

Samuel Johnson said “A second marriage is the triumph of hope over experience.” That’s always been one of my favourite quotes, and the more I think about it the more I realize that you could say the same thing about pregnancy after miscarriage, and maybe especially after a mid-term miscarriage.

It’s taken a while, but I think I’m finally allowing the hope to win out, or at least to garner a foothold. I’m 12 weeks today, and popular opinion seems to be that the risk of miscarriage falls to less than 5% once the first trimester is complete. It’s a bit of a cold comfort for someone who has defied the odds not once but twice with miscarriages at 13.5 and 16 weeks, but I’ll take whatever comfort I can.

I haven’t been posting much about the pregnancy, partly because I would have been doing a lot of whining. I haven’t been feeling great, which some might say is a good sign but I take more as a sign that I’m getting too old for this shit. But mostly, I’ve been taking the famous and favoured “la la la, I don’t hear you” approach to this pregnancy – that is, I’m ignoring it until I’m forced to do otherwise. I mean, I’m taking good care of myself and everything, but I spent the first ten weeks or so numbed by vacillating ambivalence, exhaustion, and abject terror. It was simply easier and less stressful to not think about it.

What I really appreciate is how the people around me have taken their cues from me. I haven’t really wanted to talk about the pregnancy, let alone the possibility that it could very well end in the birth of an actual baby, very much at all. Every time I spoke about it, I cringed internally, maybe feeling like I was tempting fate or maybe just not yet ready to believe with my whole heart. (And you think I’ve been hedging – I’m a rampant optimist compared to Beloved, who has been patient and indulgent to my complete lack of energy and ongoing miserableness without actually letting himself buy into the pregnancy… yet.)

It’s getting easier – and, frankly, a bit of a relief – to be able give myself over to my natual optimism again, even if it’s incrementally. At 12 weeks I am starting to feel less simply wretched and more pregnant. I can feel the bulge of my uterus when I lean against the counter or lie on my stomach, and I can see it even through my clothes. Not long now and other people will be able to see it, too, and that makes me happy. I always liked the public part of being pregnant, how it confers a special status on you and sets you apart from the crowd. (It’s shameless how Leo I am sometimes.)

Baby’s about the size of my thumb now, according to Baby Centre (which I read through splayed fingers, still caught between detachment and delight) and finally looks human instead of like something you’d dip in cocktail sauce or sauté in garlic butter. Baby has fingers and toes and eyelids, and waves its little arms and legs doing intrauterine gymnastics just like its big brothers.

And it will remain firmly an “it” in my head with no gender speculation whatsoever on my part until six weeks from now when I can find out definitively whether it has indoor or outdoor plumbing. Even though I’m slowly capitulating to optimism, that’s too big of a leap of faith for me at this point. I simply can’t think about it. Once it has a gender and appears safe and healthy after the Integrated Prenatal Screening test results are in and the 18 week ultrasound shows everything is fine – that’s when I’ll let out this breath I’ve been holding since the end of May. Kind of like not letting your kids name the stray kitten they’ve found when you have no intention of letting them keep it, I think. Once it has a gender, once other people can see it, and once I can feel it moving – that’s when it will become real to me. Until then, I’ll keep joy at arm’s length where I can feel its warmth but where I can drop it in a hurry if I have to.

Ugh, this is coming out so much more morbidly depressing than I intended. Must be the dreariness of the pouring rain outside that’s dampening what was supposed to be a fairly upbeat and enthusiastic post. My point is that even though I’ve been mired in doubt and anxiety, I feel better now. Really, I do! I have another ultrasound on Monday, which will definitely help me feel more secure. And with every week that passes (how lovely to be pregnant in the summertime, when time flits past like a warm breeze on the beach) lets me turn my face more fully toward the sun, and to bask in the glow of what I find increasingly difficult to deny.

You can’t keep an infernal optimist down for long.

A thank you note, a love letter, and a call to action

I’m so easy to please. In this case, I’m absolutely tickled to have been named as a “Rockin’ Girl Blogger” by JanB from Just a Mom; That’s more than enough.


Thanks, Jan! (You should go check out Jan’s blog. I don’t go over there often enough and she’s got some great stuff, including a gallery of her artwork. Very cool!)

So now I’m supposed to pass on this honour. Trouble is, I could give it to any of the great chicks in my blogroll – have you clicked on a new blog lately? And, I’m so far behind on my blog reading that I have no idea who has already been nominated by someone else.

But the more I thought about it, the more I knew who I wanted to nominate. So this is a nomination and a love letter and a call to action all rolled up into one long post.

I first “met” Cooper and Emily through their blog Been There in early 2005. When Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans in the summer of 2005, Cooper and Emily set up a clearing house where people who wanted to help could connect with people in need, and I was in awe of the power of two mom bloggers to make a real and concrete difference in the lives of people in devastating circumstances.

In the subsequent years, Cooper and Emily have raised awareness about (and even serve on the executive committee of) Moms Rising.org, and have recently spearheaded the BlogHer’s Act, a “year-long initiative to harness the incredible power of women online.” And they’ve even inspired a Canadian version. You have until midnight on July 22 to vote on which issue you’d like to see BlogHers Act Canada support for the next year. It’s your chance to step up beside your sister (and brother) bloggers to make a concrete difference in the world. (I should have been blogging about this stuff long before now. Shame on me for not getting on the ball sooner, but it’s not too late – get over there and vote now, and then let’s support these movements through the next year. You don’t have to be a fan of BlogHer or be going to the conference – you just have to care enough to want to make your tiny corner of the world a better place. Cooper and Emily give a great quote by Margaret Mead: “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.” Get over there, inform yourself, vote, and do what you can. Because we’re all in this together!)

But back to Cooper and Emily, the stars of my show today. As if being in the centre of all this hasn’t been amazing and incredible and enough to exhaust an entire cabal of bloggers, there is more! After more than a year of hard work, they’ve just launched another pet project, “The MotherHood.”


What is The MotherHood? In Cooper and Emily’s own words: “We asked ourselves — what if we built a big, beautiful tent where mothers can find, share and talk about all the interesting, hilarious, intriguing, inspiring, mobilizing, good stuff on the web, and, more importantly, find each other? And, with that, the heart and soul of The MotherHood was born.” There are link lists, discussion groups, favourite blogs, and much more on the way. It’s a great concept, and I know with Cooper and Emily behind it, it will be a wonderful place to hang out online.

Not only do I love and admire Cooper and Emily, but I’m simply dazzled by them. And more importantly, I’m inspired by them. All modesty aside, even this simple little blog can be a tool for change, and I can start – in my own small ways – making a difference. So I offer them the simple token of the Rockin’ Girl Blogger award, my thanks and my pledge to do what I can.

Yeah, I suppose I can see that

Filched from Angry Pregnant Lawyer and Mimilou:

What Harry Potter Character are You?

Hermione Granger

You are a smart and intelligent person. You use your smarts to help out friends. You can be emotional at times but you always seem to be in the mood to help someone out.

Personality Test Results

Click Here to Take This Quiz
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Beloved has decided to get a jump start on me and pick up Deathly Hallows at midnight on Friday at our local book store. It will be waiting for me when I wake up on Saturday. Being woken up at 6 am on a weekend never sounded so appealing!

An ode to boys in the summer time

When I left the house at 6:30 this morning, the boys had already dressed themselves. This is memorable in itself; while Tristan is quite capable, I don’t think Simon has ever fully dressed himself before, and certainly neither of them has done it without considerable prodding and harranguing on our part.

But the really cute part is what they dressed themselves in: their matching Superman pyjamas. You see, it’s superhero day at their gymnastics day camp today, and they are supposed to dress as their favourite superhero. Conveniently, earlier in the summer I had picked up a couple of pairs of Superman shortie jammies, complete with velcro-attached cape, at WalMart. I have to tell you with a complete lack of bias that they are exquisitely adorable, running around in their identical Superman jammies with capes billowing out behind them.

I’m so pleased with the half-day gymnastics camp at Starr Gymnastics. I enrolled them back in the beginning of the summer, knowing Beloved would appreciate the break and that they were both old enough to start with this kind of thing. When I enrolled them, even though the session said it was for 3 to 5 year olds, I had the impression that they’d be in separate groups, and I thought it might be nice for them to get away from each other for a little while, too, but it turns out they’re in the same group after all. Tristan confirmed Monday afternoon that he was very happy to have Simon on his “team” so maybe they’re not so sick of each other after all. They spend the morning tumbling, bouncing on the trampoline, swinging from ropes and climbing on stuff.

Don’t you wish they had fun stuff like day camp when you were a kid? I never even went to sleep-away camp when I was a kid; we spent our summers watching the Price is Right and Match Game in the mornings and then roaming the neighbourhood in the afternoon. Or curled up with a good book – some things never change!

The other thing that I’m doing to live vicariously through the boys is swimming lessons. I’ve got them both enrolled in the same time slot, Tristan with his preschool level C and Simon in a preschool level A class. Last night was the third week of lessons and I still can’t help myself – I sit on the deck and positively beam at them as I watch them in the water. They’re both fearless, Simon moreso than even Tristan was at the same age, and both obviously doing well in their groups. Tristan can swim across the pool with a noodle under him, or for at least a couple of feet without one. Where the other kids in Simon’s class cling to the instructor or to the side, Simon bounces merrily on his own in the water, blowing bubbles or kicking vigourously at the teacher’s suggestion.

They’ve grown up so much this summer. I remember when they were babies (you know, way back in the old days) and how intensely and fiercely I loved them. I would look at older boys with skeptical curiousity, and I couldn’t imagine loving them any more than I did when they were taking their first toddling steps, wearing onsies and smiling toothless, drooly grins. And yet I look at these boys – no doubt, they are boys through and through, no trace of the baby remains – and see them thinking and absorbing and synthesizing, and it’s breathtaking.

Over the course of the summer, Tristan’s mission has been to conquer the monkey bars. Each time we stopped at a park, he would try to traverse the span of the monkey bars, and in a few months he’s gone from being barely able to dangle himself to being able to cross even the ones for the big kids, the ones that arc up and down instead of simply going straight across. After watching the ease with which Tristan could do it, I tried it one day myself and nearly pulled my arms out of my sockets. I couldn’t make it half way across and my armpits hurt for days. Those monkey bars aren’t for wimps.

The best part of three hours of gymnastics camp in the morning, fresh air in the afternoon and swimming lessons in the evening? We finally found out that it is actually possible to wear them out. My perpetual motion machines, the ones that make me dizzy with their boundless energy, actually do have a finite energy reserve. For the first time in I don’t know how long last night, they could barely stay awake long enough for a story, and there were no calls for an extra snuggle, a glass of water or an explanation as to why dogs have fur.

Ah, summertime…

Wherein I give up my eco-principals for convenience

For a week, we’re a two-car family. We’re watching my parents dog while they’re on vacation, and my mom loaned me her car for the duration. It was my intention to leave the car in the driveway except in case of emergency, but I was going to take the opportunity to switch out the boys’ full-sized car seats for booster seats. (If you’ve ever installed car seats into a two-door, pre-LATCH system Sunfire with bucket seats, you’ll know the pain of which I speak. But we got new CARS booster seats for the boys – Granny is going to be the coolest of the cool the next time she takes them for a ride.)

I’d toyed briefly with the idea of taking my mom’s car to work (shades of high school) but decided in the end to take the bus, as usual. However, when the bus showed up this morning, I walked on and realized that there were no seats. No seats. It’s a 40 minute ride, and I would have had to stand the entire way. Not going to happen.

So I pulled the bell and got off at the next stop and marched righteously back to the house, muttering to myself the whole way about how I pay a premium fare ($81/month) for my express pass and I’m three months pregnant and I’ll be damned if I’m going to stand up the whole way to work at six friggin’ thirty in the morning and what the hell are all these people doing on the bus anyway because it’s July and shouldn’t they all be on holiday or something?

It was a gorgeous morning to be driving with the sunroof open, hot coffee in my hand. I didn’t get to read the morning paper, but I listened to CBC the whole way in. My route of preference brings me first through pastoral countryside, where I can wave to the cows, then along the full length of the Rideau Canal. On the early side of seven o’clock in the morning, there’s no traffic to speak of.

No rude person tried to take up more than their half of our shared seat, no crazy driver lurched to sudden and unexpected stops, nobody’s oversized back pack bonked me in the head as they shifted back and forth in the aisle. It cost me a whole $7 to park half a block from work and the most traumatic part of the commute was choosing between the sketchy elevator and the even more sketchy stairwell in what must be the world’s scariest parking garage where I tried hard to not touch any surface with my bare flesh.

I’ve long acknowledged our days as a one-car family are limited, and I’m proud that we’ve lived in the suburbs for four years without a second car. But there simply isn’t room across the back seat of our Focus wagon for three car seats, and I absolutely refuse to spend an entire year of maternity leave stuck in the house at home with no car and three kids while Beloved drives back and forth each day.

And after years and years of subjecting myself to the whims of OC Transpo twice a day, I could get used to driving downtown by myself. It’s still a bargain at twice the cost of the bus.

OB versus midwife

The week we came back from Bar Harbor, I had been feeling awful. I was so tired I could barely put one foot in front of the other and I just wanted to sleep all day. At the nadir, I found myself standing in the kitchen, half way through throwing together tacos for dinner, wondering if I had the energy to finish chopping the onion on the cutting board in front of me. It wasn’t pretty.

So I called the OB, and was told to come in for blood work. (My next scheduled appointment was still two weeks away.) So I went in and had seven vials of blood drawn – I must again comment on the irony of having them leech out seven vials of blood when I suspect I am anaemic – and went home again. I decided to start taking the prenatal vitamins more regularly, as I had been avoiding them because my stomach was already in some constant state of upset anyway and the only time I’ve ever actually been sick through any pregnancy was directly following a prenatal vitamin chased down with a glass of orange juice one unpleasant morning.

When three days went by and I hadn’t heard from the OB’s office, I called for the results. The receptionist left me on hold, where I hope but cannot confirm that she checked not only the results but with the OB as well, and came back on the line and said, “Everything’s fine. Just keep on truckin’.”

I paused, then sputtered. “But… but I feel like crap on a cracker. I can barely function I’m so cataclysmically tired.”

“Well, she said, you ARE pregnant.” I hung up, thinking but not saying ‘Yes, well, I’m not exactly new at this, and I’ve never felt this bad before.’ In truth, by that time I was feeling considerably better, and by the end of last week I was feeling pretty darn close to myself again.

But the whole experience left a bitter taste in my mouth, so I hung up with the OB and promptly googled until I found information about midwives in Ottawa.

The good news is, I’m on a waiting list and am to call them back later this week. They expect they can take me. The bad news is, I don’t think I’m going to go with a midwife after all.

There seem to be two midwivery collectives in Ottawa, neither one of which has priviledges at the Civic hospital where both boys were born. I don’t have a lot of attachment to my OB as far as the actual childbirth is concerned, but I do feel strong ties to the Civic. Plus, Tristan was even conceived there before the IVF clinic moved off site.

Both midwivery collectives only seem to have priviledges at the Montfort Hospital, against which I have to admit I have a bit of a bias. I’ve heard of English-speaking patients having trouble there, even though it’s here in Ottawa, finding a fluently bilingual nurse. And while I’ve never really paid attention, there has been a lot of talk about closing it over the years and I don’t know why. I know the Civic, I trust the Civic, and I can’t say the same for the Montfort.

There’s a midwivery collective out in Carleton Place that has priviledges at the Queensway Carleton Hospital, which is convenient to where I live and several of my friends have given birth there. I’d happily consider that option – except then I’d have to find my way to Carleton Place, a good 20 minute drive from the house and probably an hour from work – for each appointment. Oh, and we only have one car. Not going to happen.

So, while I’m quite drawn to the concept of midwivery and I was ready to make the switch all things being equal, they aren’t equal at all. My OB’s office is a bloody pain to get to from work (as you’ll remember from my epic tale of the good-hearted cabbie and the very, very bad day) but fairly convenient to home. I’m ambivalent about her personally, with some significant pros and cons in each column. But mostly, I’m loyal to the hospital where the boys were born because I think that’s the most critical factor for me.

And besides, you know I’m not so good with change.

Order of the Phoenix

So I don’t usually do movie reviews here, mostly because I don’t see nearly enough movies. And this isn’t exactly a movie review, because it’s not terribly critical. But we went to see Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix on Friday night, and though Beloved and I have rehashed it to death, I still want to talk about it.

(Lots of people are talking about it, and it tickles me to no end that when you google “Harry Potter invisible horses” my blog is the first search return that pops up. The traffic spike has been pretty funny to watch.)

So, have you seen it? What did you think? (mild spoiler alert – consider yourself warned)

I have to say I loved it. LOVED it. The “fidget factor”, the means by which I measure my own engagement in a film by the number of times I shift, stretch, check my watch and look around the theatre, was a perfect score. I think I shifted from one cheek to the other once, that was it. I was completely engaged through the whole movie. And I have to say, the theatre was packed and kids between the ages of 8 and 16 comprised about 1/3 of the audience – and yet, with the exception of one annoying giggler in the front row, the theatre was largely silent and glued to the screen throughout. (It really was cute seeing kids showing up dressed in robes.)

It’s rare, so rare, when you can love the book and love the movie. The only example that comes even close for me was Carl Sagan’s Contact, one of my top-ten fave books of all time. The movie did the book justice, but wasn’t nearly as wonderful as the book.

Now, as I may have mention once or ten times, I’ve been re-reading the books for the last couple of months, and I just finished Order of the Phoenix the night before we left for Bar Harbor so all the details were fresh in my mind. There were quite a few points where the book and movie diverged, but I imagine a movie true to a 600 page book’s every detail would probably run somewhere around 26 hours, so I get the shortcuts they took. I realized after the movie that there was not a single reference to quiddich in the whole movie. Not that I missed it; I always kind of found the whole quiddich thing kind of tiresome.

It was too bad we didn’t see more from some of the supporting cast, but again I can see why they had to trim things down to size. Even Ron and Hermione probably had about three pages each of dialogue in the whole movie. I didn’t find Dolores Umbridge nearly toady enough, but that was my only quibble with the casting. They did a fantastic job with the special effects and a great job with the Ministry of Magic. I loved the final battle scene, especially the one brief bit where Harry and Sirius were fighting Death Eaters side-by-side. Probably my favourite scene in the whole movie – very stirring, especially for a hormonal pregnant woman.

As we were walking out of the theatre, I told Beloved that I’d happily turn around and go watch the whole thing again. It was that good. And then I went home and read the last four chapters of Half-Blood Prince.

Six days and counting. I’m stoked.

High school, 20 years later

I saw this over on Andrea’s and Bub and Pie’s blogs, and though it would make a fun Friday brainless meme. I’ve been thinking about high school a bit lately, since I’ve been playing on Facebook. It’s amazing to me that so many people who have signed up to “I graduated CCH in the 1980s” group are complete strangers to me, but I suppose in a school that huge (when I went there, Catholic Central was one of only two Catholic high schools in the city of London and had an average population of 1700 students) it’s little surprise that I don’t really remember anyone except the ones I spent significant time with. And, high school in general was a painfully awkward time for me socially anyway so I’ve probably blocked out all but the very best and worst of it.

(This is long, even by my standards, so I’ve tucked it below the fold. Click the “more please” button below to keep reading. And please excuse the excess white space, but Blogger has decided to insert two hard returns between each paragraph no matter how many times I edit them out. Grrr!)


1 Who was your best friend?

In Grades 9 and 10, I was inseparable from Suzan Marchand. She was my first girly-girl friend, in the giggling, note-passing, boy-crazy, incredibly annoying way only 15 year old girls can be. By Grade 11, I’d started running with a different crowd and I suppose the person to whom I was closest would be the guy who eventually became my ‘practice husband’ James. He lived in Sudbury, though, so during this time, I was pretty much inseparable from the Fry brothers, and Todd and Yvonne and Rose and a large, revolving pack of oddballs and outcasts.

2 What sports did you play?

Sports? Guffaw. No thanks. I didn’t even take gym in high school, and didn’t discover that physical activity could actually be enjoyable until my mid-twenties.

3 What kind of car did you drive?

The first car I drove was one of those giant early 1980s Oldsmobile station wagons, the kind with the faux-wood paneling on the sides and the backwards-facing third-row seat that folded down. On my 17th birthday, my Mom bought a new 1986 Mustang coupe and we ‘shared’ that for the rest of my high school career. How cool is my mom?

4 It’s Friday night, where were you?

Again, that depends on whether it was early or late in my high school career. Early on, probably talking for hours on the phone to Suzan and watching Friday Night Videos together over the phone. Later on, probably at the Fry’s house, or standing in the parking lot of McDonalds with the rest of the crowd trying to decide on where to go.

5 Were you a party animal?

Um, no.

6 Were you considered a flirt?

Um, no. But not for lack of trying. And again, I think I got much better at this by Grade 12 or 13. Funy how I suddenly became that much more attractive to other boys once I had a steady (and conveniently out of town) boyfriend.

7 Were you in band, orchestra, or choir?

Oh yes. I played flute in the high school band for four years, and really wish I had taken my music lessons more seriously. With the band, we traveled to Orlando for a festival one year, and to Ottawa in my senior year, just a few short months before I planned to move up here with my boyfriend.

8 Were you a nerd?

Um… I don’t know. I was socially awkward, especially in the first couple of years. I think I was too desperate to be liked to be a true nerd, but I had definite nerdy tendencies.

9 Did you get suspended/expelled?

No. My most heinous rule violation was to frequently flaunt the school dress code, which required navy pants or skirt and a white or navy shirt with a collar. It was the collar part against which I often rebelled, and I played fast and loose with the definition of ‘navy’ blue.

10 Can you sing the fight song?

Uh, something about “fight Crusaders”… but, no.

11 Who was your favorite teacher?

I had Mrs Hammond for English twice, and in Grade 13 she told me she’d give me a final grade over 90% (I was already close) if I could get published by the end of the year. True to her word, she gave me a final mark of 93% when I got a letter to the editor published in the local paper – which, upon reflection, was about as difficult as getting my name in the phone book, but I was pretty stoked at the time. I also loved my Grade 13 world history professor, a crusty oblate priest named Father Bill Thompson. When James and I got married the year after I graduated (eep!), we asked Father Thompson to officiate and he did.

12 School mascot?

Rodney (the Crusader) from the B.C. comic strip.

13 Did you go to Prom?

Yes. It was at Wonderland Gardens, which burned down a couple of years ago, from what I understand. I barely remember any of it, not because I was drinking but simply because I don’t think it was a particularly memorable time. I do remember the dress, though, a sexy white number with a poofy skirt that fell above my knee (not unlike the ones that were in fashion last year) and a risqué lacy patch over my cleavage that my mother kept threatening to stick a hankerchief into.

14 If you could go back and do it over, would you?

Ugh. No. The good times were great, and I think being 17 was one of the best years of my life, but being 15 was excruciating. Once was more than enough, thanks.

15 What do you remember most about graduation?

At the time, Ontario had five years of high school. You could graduate in Grade 12 and go on to a trade school or community college, or do Grade 13 and go on to University. The only thing I remember about Grade 12 grad is that my parents couldn’t get in to the church because nobody bothered to check tickets at the door and it was overfull. Did we have a Grade 13 grad? I think it was just a mass. I do remember, though, that Father Thompson officiated our Grade 13 grad mass, and spoke about a book he was reading by Carl Sagan called Contact. A few months later, I remembered him talking about it and read it myself, and it has since become one of my all-time favourite books.

16 Where were you on senior skip day?

This must be an American thing? But speaking of skip, yes, I did like to do that. Once in a blue moon, of course. Like the day we decided to drive to Port Huron, Michigan for absolutely no reason.

17 Did you have a job your senior year?

I had a string of jobs all through high school, starting from when I was 14 and working at the tobacco/newstand/camera store of a family friend. I worked at Baskin Robbins, a movie rental place, doing telephone sales of magazines and freezer plans, and Canadian Tire. By senior year, I was working as a cashier at Zellers, a job I continued when I moved to Ottawa and for which I later quit university to do full time.

18 Where did you go most often for lunch?

For the first few months, I was so terrified of the rest of the student body that I ate my lunch alone beside a fountain in a tiny park half a block from my school. By the time I actually had friends, we mostly ate in one of the two cafeterias while we played euchre.

19 Have you gained weight since then?

*insert eyeball roll here*

20 What did you do after graduation?

The weekend after high school finished, I moved to Ottawa to live with James. (We had gotten engaged in May of that year. I still shudder to think of it, I was in Grade 13 and wearing an engagement ring. My poor mother.) I started at Carleton University in the fall, but had quit by the end of the Christmas break that year. James and I were married in the summer of the following year (1989), and divorced five years later. I went back to school part time in 1992 and eventually graduated from university in 1998.

21 When did you graduate?

June, 1988.

22 Who was your Senior prom date?

James.

23 Are you going / did you go to your 10 year reunion?

Our school was never big on reunions. If there was a ten-year reunion, I never heard about it. I wouldn’t go anyway. For the most part, the people I care about from high school are still around enough to be commenting here occasionally or at least a phone-call away. I met up with a few more online recently through Facebook. There’s only one guy, Colin Murray, of whom I’ve completely lost track and often think about – but he doesn’t strike me as a high school reunion type either.

24 Who was your home room teacher?

Oh good lord, I can’t remember the plot of a book I read four months ago and you want me to remember stuff like this? I do remember being late more than my fair share of times because Fryman and Rose and I, along with some combination of others, used to drive in together in Fryman’s beat-up shit-brown Volkswagon Rabbit, and we were easily distracted on the way to school. They had this promotion going on in my senior year called “Freebie Fridays” where you could get free French Toast Sticks at a participating Burger King, and we’d drive all over the city in search of free fast food. For reasons I can’t quite remember, some days we’d randomly do stuff like decide to donate blood, too, and though we’d get peculiar looks from the administration, we at least never got in trouble for that act of altruism.

25 Who will repost this after you?

??? But if you do play along, leave a comment so I can come and relive this most painful and awkward time of your life with you!

"Elephants outstanding"

Some items from the newspaper are just too precious to pass by without commenting on them.

Apparently, three elephants escaped from the Garden Bros Circus in Newmarket, Ontario (near Toronto) and went on a 3 am stroll through suburbia. The electric fence penning them in somehow lost power, and when the elephants realized it, they knocked down the fence and made a break for it. Take a moment to picture two full-grown elephants – elephants! – roaming around in your suburban neighbourhood under cover of night. And now imagine being the caller, or better yet, the dispatcher, on this 911 call, as reported in the Globe and Mail:

Caller: “Hi. Umm… we’ve found an elephant walking down the street near the community centre, the Ray Twiney.”

Operator: “Sorry?”

Caller: “We’ve found an elephant walking down the street. Like the ones from, like, the circus at the Ray Twiney Centre. One of them got loose and it’s walking down the street.”

For the next few minutes, the caller explains that there are, in fact, at least two fully grown, trainer-less elephants milling about, as a woman in the background can be heard futilely exclaiming: “Don’t let it cross the street!”

Priceless!